Two moons had passed since the spectacle of Lyrien's joust and the subsequent announcement of his betrothal to Anya. The manor was abuzz with preparations for the upcoming troth ceremony, a grand affair that would cement them. Amidst the flurry of activity, Aethera and a dozen of her half-sisters were relegated to the mundane task of lemon squeezing.
Their backs ached, their hands were raw, and their spirits were as sour as the fruit they were extracting. Aethera, in particular, found the task to be an affront to her dignity. She was a daughter of the house, not a peasant drudge. Her mind wandered to the upcoming festivities, a bitter taste lingering on her tongue. The irony was not lost on her; she, the woman once entangled with the groom, was now reduced to preparing for his nuptials-
Thwack!
A sharp rap on the knuckles brought her back to the present.
"Bl••dy hell!"
Thwack!
Ma Gracie, the matron assigned to oversee their labor, stood over her, her face a mask of disapproval. "Lady don't cuss like stable boy," she scolded, her voice a grating rasp.
Aethera glared at the woman, her annoyance barely concealed. "And a lady shouldn't squeeze lemons like a peasant," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Ma Gracie's face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the lemons they were squeezing. "The lady of the house said lemons be juiced," she said, her voice rising in pitch. "So make juice!"
"The lady of the house can suck the lemons dry, for all I care," Aethera seethed, her voice low but filled with a venomous undercurrent. The words hung heavy in the air.
A gasp rippled through the group of girls as they exchanged shocked glances. Ma Gracie's face turned a further shade of crimson. Her hand, trembling with rage, raised the wooden ruler.
Thwack!
With a swift movement, she brought the ruler down on Aethera's knuckles. The pain was sharp and immediate, a jolt that sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins. But she refused to show weakness. Her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing, she met Ma Gracie's gaze with a defiant stare.
"A little devil, you are," Ma Gracie hissed, her voice laced with venom. "You shall be punished for your foul mouth."
The injustice of the situation rankled Aethera. All their hard work, their aching hands, would be rewarded with nothing but the satisfaction of knowing they had contributed to the grandeur of the occasion. The lemon juice, the product of their labor, would be transformed into a concoction that would be served to the manor's guests, while they, the creators, would remain unseen and unappreciated.
"Your attitude won't get you husband," Ma Gracie muttered, her voice dripping with contempt.
Aethera scoffed inwardly. Marriage was the last thing on her mind. Freedom, independence were the things that ignited her spirit. She would not be bound by the shackles of matrimony, not if she had anything to say about it.
༒︎
Aethera navigated the moonlit corridor, her knuckles throbbing with a dull ache. The marks left by Ma Gracie's ruler were a painful reminder of her lowly status. If the prophetess's words held any truth, then perhaps she was indeed a harbinger of doom, destined to bring misfortune to those around her. She would have welcomed the opportunity to bestow a taste of her own medicine on the matron, but such thoughts were merely fantasies born of frustration.
The rhythmic pounding of drums echoed through the manor, a pulsating heartbeat that signaled the height of the festivities. The troth ceremony was in full swing.
As she rounded a corner, she was pulled abruptly into the shadows. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, and the familiar scent of leather and sweat filled her senses. Lyrien, his face illuminated by the moonlight, stood before her, his eyes filled with a longing that was both familiar and unsettling.
"I missed you," he whispered, his voice low and husky.
Aethera did not return the embrace. Their affair had been a clandestine rendezvous, a fleeting moment of passion amidst the confines of duty. Now, as he stood before her, a mere hours away from his betrothal, their shared history seemed like a distant memory.
"You are about to be a married man," she said, her voice steady.
Lyrien shrugged, a careless gesture that belied the turmoil within him. "A marriage of convenience," he replied, his voice laced with disdain. "Love is a luxury afforded to few."
Aethera reached out and adjusted the collar of his fine attire, her touch gentle despite the bitterness she felt. "You look the part," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Lyrien's eyes, dark and intense, held a promise of something forbidden. "I want you, Aethera," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Not her."
Aethera met his gaze, her expression a mask of indifference. "Your union would be as joyful as a funeral pyre," she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. "A match made in the depths of hell."
Lyrien's hand tightened around her waist, his touch possessive. "You could be mine," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. "My mistress."
Aethera pulled away, her voice cold and dismissive. "A mistress? Is that the best you can offer? A life in the shadows, a mere shadow of a woman?"
Lyrien's face darkened. "It is better than nothing," he retorted, his pride wounded.
"It is better than you," she countered, her voice steady. "You are a man trapped in a gilded cage, a puppet dancing on strings. I have no desire to be your plaything."
Lyrien's grip tightened once more, his desperation growing. "I can free you," he promised, his voice filled with a false sense of power. "We can escape this place together."
Aethera laughed, a sound as cold as winter's frost. "And where would we go, pray tell? To live as outlaws, hunted by your own kind? I think not."
Lyrien's voice, a low growl, echoed in the silent corridor. "Would you go to another man when I am gone?" His question hung heavy in the air, a challenge, a demand for reassurance.
Aethera paused. The question was as unexpected as it was invasive. She tilted her head to face him, her gaze steady. "And what makes you think I would concern myself with such matters?" Her voice was as cold as the winter wind.
Lyrien's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "You know what I mean," he insisted, his voice rising in pitch. "Will you remain faithful to our…understanding?"
Aethera scoffed. "Faithful? A word without meaning in this world." Her voice was laced with contempt. "I am no man's property, Lyrien. To bind oneself to another is a foolish endeavor."
Lyrien's jaw clenched. "So, you admit it," he growled. "You would take another lover."
Aethera met his gaze, her eyes filled with a cold indifference. "Perhaps," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of menace. "Or perhaps I would find solitude more to my liking."
Lyrien felt a surge of anger. He had exposed his vulnerability, and she had struck without mercy. He took a step forward, his intention clear.
Aethera did not retreat. She met his advance with a defiant stare, her body rigid. The tension between them was palpable, a silent battle of wills.
For a long moment, they stood face to face, their breaths mingling in the cold night air.
"I will not be a mistress, like my dead mother," Aethera declared, her voice low and resolute. The memory of her mother, a shadow haunting her life, fueled her determination. She would not follow in her footsteps.
Lyrien's hand stilled, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. "Is your heart so bitter towards me?" he asked, his voice filled with a fabricated sadness. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the intensity of their earlier exchange.
Lyrien's eyes locked onto Aethera's as he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "I heard the bitterest f•cks are the sweetest." He took a step closer.
Aethera's glare could have frozen the air solid. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she seethed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Go rut a diseased pig , Lyrien. May its festering soul consume your rotting soul."
She turned to walk away, her gown swirling around her ankles like a dark cloud, but Lyrien's voice rose in contempt, echoing off the manor walls. "Don't get too full of yourself, Aethera! "
He continued, his voice rising further, his words dripping with venom. "Just hike up your skirts and let us be done with it!"
Aethera continued walking away, her steps echoing in the silent corridor. She would not allow herself to be drawn into his drama.
Lyrien's voice, filled with rage, erupted behind her. A torrent of profanities and insults, a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. She ignored him, her resolve unwavering. His words were like wind against a stone wall, powerless to move her.
As she disappeared from sight, the echoes of his anger faded, leaving an eerie silence in the corridor.